A Promise and a Test
by amenity
Summary: 1873: When little Henry McCarty gets insulted by a schoolmate, he asks himself and his mother what the point of living is and why it is so hard not to have a real father. His mother then teaches him a valuable lesson about life and living.


A Promise And a Test

By Amenity

Disclaimer: The usual... this is a story based on one or more characters from Young Guns 1, and these do not belong to me. I'm doing this and creating a bit of a background (slightly AU) just out of unconditional love... and would never dream of making money out of it. So.. let's go on to the story.   
  
"Out of the way there, you little rascals!" the brawny coachman cried from down his high coach-box, and the group of young boys jumped from off the middle of Silver City's Bullard Street onto the muddy, makeshift (actually only fancied) sidewalk. The coach dashed by, thrusting up chunks of dark mud and other unnameable filth from the road, from which an indefinable odour of dirt, horse manure, wet dogs and old sweat arose into everyone's (luckily numbed) nostrils. It had rained heavily the night before all through Sunday morning but now, in the early afternoon, the sky was just overcast, although a faint drizzle made itself noticed from time to time. It wasn't enough to keep the kids off the street, though. The small party of boys, not one of them exceeding the age of thirteen, stared after the passing stagecoach; astounded, startled, bewildered and one of them with a longing expression on his face.  
  
"Maybe I'll ride off on one of those," he said, blue eyes sparkling with excitement and expectation. He wasn't the youngest of the group, but he sure looked it: small, slender, lithe and lissom, an oval-shaped face and round cheeks, strands of silver-blond hair hanging in front of his eyes. He beamed, and as he did so he revealed two slightly protruding front teeth. "Day I'm big. Yeah, maybe I'll do just that." He was twelve years old, but small for his age, which caused the impression that he wasn't older than eight. Another boy, the same age but swarthier, taller and sturdier, grimaced incredulously.  
  
"When you get big, Henry?" he mocked, although not meaning harm, and cackled dully. The others, an eight-year-old redhead and a thirteen-year- old, tall Mexican, joined in. The open and somewhat dreamy grin on Henry's face died away promptly. "That day ain't never coming for you, pal," the swarthy comedian, whose name was Louis Abraham, chuckled and patted Henry's shoulder. He didn't mean to offend, that was just his way with people.  
  
Henry replied, "Why, Lou, greatness is something you get out of your head, not your size," coolly. Although he was used to hearing jokes about his height and his so-called girlish, when actually pretty looks, as well as his poor physical development, those insults always caused a strange feeling of sharp awareness in him. It was as though he'd learned, over time, to turn eventual temper tantrums, which helped no one out of a predicament, into cold sense of alarm. Henry had soon learned that, if he wished not only to survive but live as well, he must look after himself, since his momma was in no condition and his stepfather... well, when he wasn't prospecting in Pinos Altos, he wasn't doing much of anything else, too, other than gambling or spending time with Josie, Henry's little brother. Oh, Henry had learned his lesson of survival a long time ago- back when he was still referred to as 'Billy' by his momma. That was before she met William Antrim, of course.  
  
Louis asked, "Say what?" looking rather befuddled. He wasn't a bad kid, but he had trouble following some of Henry's chains of thought.  
  
"You and I are the best examples of what I've just told you," Henry explained with a keen sparkle in his eyes. Louis shook his head.  
  
"That one of them strange ideas you got from a dime novel, Henry?" He scratched his burly forehead, wondering whether he should feel insulted or not. One could never be sure with this Antrim kid.  
  
"Yeah, Henry," the little redhead, who was already a bit taller than Henry and went by the name of Frank, threw in. "You wanna take care or you read too much. I mean that can't be any good... outwear your eyes or somethin'!" As had happened before, a feeble drizzle started dewing the children's hair and faces. Henry cast Frank a curious sideways glance and smirked. He was usually smiling, one way or another, even when he was in trouble or in fact angry. It was, so to speak, his way of keeping control of a situation, of just the upper hand. Right now he was plainly amused.  
  
"Nah," he objected with a wave of his small hand. He turned his face against the wind and breathed in deeply, sensing a freshness that, for a moment, drove away the mouldy air of downtown Silver City. "You can never read enough, Frank. It's fuel for your dreams, you see. If you don't dream high, you won't get anywhere."  
  
Anthony, the tall Mexican, stated, "Nobody gets anywhere. At least people like us won't," and sighed. They went to school together and, although there was only one classroom anyway, he sat in a corner with Henry and Louis, which meant that he was doing that term for the second time. "Maybe your dad will find some gold, though, Henry," he added without much enthusiasm. A group of brawly men on horseback passed through, forcing Henry to wait until he could answer.  
  
"He's not my father," he corrected with calmness but vehemence as well, wagging his index finger. The other boys looked a little ragged and so would Henry, since his family wasn't wealthy at all, but his momma attached importance to making the best of what they had, so Henry and his brother looked simple, but tidy most of the time. "He isn't Josie's father, too. William Antrim is our stepfather."  
  
"That would explain why you have different surnames," Louis said. Henry nodded, affirming. "McCarty, isn't it?"  
  
"Well, actually my momma said that Michael McCarty was Josie's father," Henry said slowly. He found his family ties a little confusing and it took him some time to remember Catherine Antrim's exact words. "I hardly remember him, he died when I was three and Josie one. My father was a man named Patrick Bonney, but he died shortly before I was born, back in Ireland." Louis made a count on his fingers and frowned, while Frank waited for him to come to a conclusion and Anthony glumly stared at his mud caked shoes.  
  
Louis said, "I suppose your momma ain't had much luck, then." Henry just shrugged.  
  
"Well I think that's not it at all," a boy's voice, dripping with sarcasm, interposed. The four friends whirled around to the left, from where the voice had come, and faced Harvey Whitehill, Junior, the Sheriff's fourteen- year-old son. He and his small posse (Henry for instance refused to call them Junior's 'friends') had approached Henry and the others quietly and completely unnoticed. Henry reminded himself that he should be warier from now on. Junior resembled his father very much, even at his early age: tall, beefy and dark-eyed. The only thing he missed was the Sheriff's bonhomie. No one knew the exact reason but, ever since William Henry Bonney McCarty and his family had arrived in Silver City, he had developed an antipathy for the newcomer. Henry reckoned Junior had a violent temper and only needed a scapegoat; he just happened to be around. It annoyed him though and, although he wasn't a match for Junior when it came to raw strength, he could avoid getting deeply hurt by using his wits. Every encounter with the wannabe-sheriff was an unpleasant business, though.  
  
"Who invited you, dumbass?" Louis bellowed. He, as was plain to see, wasn't exactly on good terms with Junior. It was not like Junior was some type of minor criminal, but he felt it was his duty to step into his father's footprints and keep up law and order in his little realm. Both the burly Louis and the witty Henry were a thorn in his eye. He tended to hate everything and everyone he could not control or classify, although he took to doing the latter anyway. Besides, Henry's harmless mischievous acts were, to Junior, nothing short of felony. Henry stepped forward, whilst Louis clenched his fists. If one wanted to keep self-complacent thugs out of one's way, it was important not to show fear and, if possible, present them a little cheekiness.  
  
"Calm down, Lou," Henry said and gave Junior a sympathetic smile, although his eyes sparkled cunningly. "Why don't we try having a conversation instead of fighting? It would sure be a rare event in our friends' lives... Howdy, Junior. Can I help you in any way?" Junior sneered and it wasn't hard to foretell that this scene was going to get nasty.  
  
"I could tell you I wanna use your pretty face to shine my shoes," Junior replied and Henry just thought that was hackneyed and dull. "But that's not why I joined your conversation, girls." Henry heard Louis's knuckles cracking behind him and that familiar, dangerous awareness surging up inside of him. Junior's modest posse already smirked, just at the prospect of seeing their future law enforcement agent bring down a suspicious little crook through the sheer strength of his God-given wit. Henry's smile froze on his thin lips.  
  
"Oh, really? Well, spit it out and stop wasting my time, then." Like a stone plummeting into a well of icy-cold water, the memory of his origins being discussed just before struck him. He suddenly knew what kind of insult was awaiting him and wondered how he'd react. He was too small and weak to fight Junior, and Louis wasn't enough to take care of... how many were there? He surveyed the scenery and counted five hostile heads. They were way too many, and had too little to do with their spare time, to leave them alone. Besides, losing control of his temper was bad; it could be used against him. He knew there was a way of getting Junior so mad that he became unarmed and kept to insulting instead of beating. It was Henry's only card and he knew it, although it was a dangerous gamble.  
  
"Any time I give you should honour you, scum," Junior spat disdainfully. "You might learn somethin' from me. I'm gonna be the law, you know." Henry couldn't help but smirk.  
  
"Oh, if that's the case, then I'd better start being an outlaw," he joked, making his friends giggle. "Because I would rather be thrown in jail than be in the same category as you, Junior." The Sheriff's son pouted and Henry winked at him, aware that he had gotten the upper hand at least for the moment. "What do you want? If you haven't got anything to say, I suggest you get lost before I think of anything." Posing as overconfident and extremely clever always made a good impression. The poker game was starting to go in the direction he wished, although danger wasn't over and some peeve could surely be expected. Henry reckoned that it would be much easier if all people were just looking for a good time, like him. Junior flushed heavily and it was clear to Henry that he would not make a good sheriff, at least not as good as his father.  
  
"You, you fatherless little rodent, dirty son of a goddamn whore!" he bellowed furiously. Hearing that, Louis tried to storm past Henry and throw himself at Junior with a groan, but Henry held him fast. The smirk on his face had frozen utterly; but he knew there was no way of winning a fistfight against that majority. He also knew that he had actually gotten Junior where he had wanted him all along, and that all he needed to do was to try to channel his murderous feelings in a way he'd really hurt his opponent.  
  
"Nah," he said deprecatingly and clicked his tongue, leaning his head to one side. "We haven't been doing our politeness-practice lately, have we, Junior?" Henry shook his head and sighed. "Oh, what would your papa say to that, huh? But don't worry, I won't tell a soul," he added conspiratorially and winked. "If you fine gentlemen would excuse the little rodent now, I think I have something better to do before I find an excuse to kill big boy over there." Without another word, he turned around, patted Louis's shoulder and strode away lightly. The others stared after him, befuddled, as though he'd lost his marbles. Henry went straight back home, not looking back once. He was satisfied with his reply and how he'd managed to control his anger, but that didn't mean he wasn't upset about what Junior had said to him. Of course it was not true and of course he had only said it to wind Henry up, but it had still affected him.  
  
Taking the way right and crossing from Bullard Street to the Broadway of Silver City, Henry wondered whether he would have to fend off attacks like those all his life. As he dodged other walkers and automatically jumped over some dog waste, his thoughts went even further: If people kept trying to get the better of him for want of better preys, would he have to fight them off verbally all his life? He knew there were situations one could not argue a way out or just let it be... sometimes, defending oneself through violence was needed, and the last thing he wanted was to be pegged a girlish coward. Henry had to admit to himself that he wasn't exactly the type of person who'd sit still, quiet and abashed in a corner. He liked having fun, being in the centre of happenings, being loud and merry. People confused that with mischief and wrongdoing, or even just cocky swaggering. That wasn't the idea at all. The main thought, or impulse, better said, was enjoying himself. He neither wished to hurt someone, nor take advantages of other people's weaknesses (although his sense of humour, depending on how sensitive they were might offend some. But that wasn't his fault!). Life was short and no one should waste time trying to follow rules that were just a pain in the neck. What was wrong with being happy? People were just too eager on getting and showing off power; that was all...  
  
After that, Henry got home, having no further time to expand his chain of thought. The important thing was that he wasn't that mad anymore. It wasn't all that bad as long as he had friends who were loyal to him, he reckoned.  
  
The tiny cubicle his momma had gotten them wasn't exactly what one would call an ideal, cosy home, but it was better than living on the street, and Henry had never demanded much luxury, never having known it in the first place. His mother, Catherine Antrim, was baking sweet cakes (for sale) at the oven that stood at one corner of the cabin, opposite to the mattresses. It worked as fireplace during the cold months, as well. Catherine was a small, originally strong-built but now skinny Irishwoman in her early forties. She had her blond hair pinned up and, despite all debacles she had gone through, her consumption not the least of them, she was known to be jolly high-spirited, as well as a good mother. When she saw her eldest son coming inside, she shortly interrupted her work and beamed at him. Her face was pale and she had dark circles around her blue eyes.  
  
She greeted, "Hello, Henry," with her low-pitched voice and discrete Irish accent, and beckoned him inside. "I thought you'd be outside until it got dark. Has it started to rain again?" Henry dropped himself on the old mattress he shared with his younger brother, Joseph, who was lying on the far end and dozing.  
  
"No, momma, I just wanted to come home," he lied. Well, it was not a lie, more like a concealment of facts. The part about the rain was true. Catherine, who knew her son, examined him carefully, reading his face and instinctively knowing something wasn't right. Henry did notice her look, though, and hurried to beat her to it, adding: "Where's Billy?" Even after all those years, it struck him funny to refer to someone else with his own name. "Shouldn't he be here? He went to Mass this morning, if I'm not very much mistaken."  
  
"Well, he isn't here now, as you can see for yourself," Catherine stated with a bitter smile. "Although who knows... maybe he'll come back with a dime to spare for you, so you can buy another book. Yours are so tattered." Aha, so he was gambling again. Henry should have known. All right, he hadn't expected anything else, but that question was the first to pop into his head. The evasive manoeuvre failed, though, since Catherine went back to what she had wanted to say before.  
  
She let her dough be, cleaned the hands on the apron she wore over her dress and asked, "Tell me what's wrong, baby," sitting down next to Henry. Josie, who was half asleep, let out an unpleased groan when the mattress moved again. "Were you in a fight?"  
  
"No," Henry said. "Well, not a real one. Momma..." he started and then hesitated.  
  
"Yes, dear?" Apparently, the unusually noisy people next door were having an unusually loud argument, but the Antrims were used to that by now. Catherine tenderly ran her not so clean fingers through Henry's partially clean hair.  
  
"Would you expect someone like Junior Whitehill to know the meaning of the word 'rodent'?" He raised his head to face his momma and she wasn't sure whether to frown or to laugh. In the end, she did both.  
  
"Did he call you that?" Henry nodded and automatically put his hand to his mouth. His teeth were healthy and the two protruding ones didn't really bother him because, all in all, he was fond of his face, although he had to admit that there were few people he really considered ugly anyway. That was, even though he couldn't know, not at all his case: Henry was pretty, having a sensitive touch to his features and an enchanting smile that enthralled most grownups (especially women), a fact that added to his conspicuousness, just like his forward, jovial nature. Catherine sometimes doubted he was tough enough to survive in that rough world, but then she remembered his bright wits and wasn't any longer afraid he might not make it. "Well, you shouldn't take that seriously," she added after a moment. "It's not true. Besides, you know the lad doesn't sympathise with you, so he'll just go on trying to wind you up, so one day you'll lose your temper and he can get the excuse he needs to beat you up."  
  
"It won't come to that," Henry assured laconically. "I promise you that, Momma." There was something about the way he said it that gave Catherine the creeps, as well as the strange surety her son would never be subdued by any bully, no matter what the consequences might be. Was that a good thing to know? She wasn't sure, but had to admit that she'd rather see someone else hurt than her boy.  
  
"But there's more you wanna say, right?" she enquired, putting her arm around her son. She loved him so much she could sometimes think of nothing else. "My baby boy." Henry frowned but didn't comment the last remark.  
  
"Momma... why is it so hard not to have a real father?" he asked instead. It was an elusive question and he knew it, but he just couldn't hold it back. Catherine sighed and mulled over the issue for a minute. "Someone to stand behind and support me when I need it? I'm so much on my own," Henry added, believing his mother to need further explanation.  
  
"I don't know, love," she finally said. "I suppose life's hard. Some people get all, but the rest, like us, need to fight and be strong in order to stay alive." She kissed the boy's dishevelled hair. "If you're too good a person, you suspect nothing and people will take advantage of you. If you're slow, they will kill you. If you are too kind, life's gonna show you the cruel side. So you must be wary, my boy. Wary and always one step ahead of those who might hurt you."  
  
"Sounds like there's not much fun to be had," Henry concluded glumly, but Catherine softly shook her head and then rested her cheek on top of her son's head.  
  
"No, I don't agree. You see: you have to be quick and ready to defend yourself, that is true. But that only points out the beautiful things about life: real friendship and joy, love and loyalty. You must stick to values such as those, love. There is nothing better to be gotten, and not even the rich folks can have more. So if a mindless thug like that Junior Whitehill insults you because of your teeth or the fact that you don't have a father..." She was well able to read between the lines. "You should keep in mind that you are better than the whole lot of them. I see that you will have a brilliant future and that you'll be very happy." Henry closed his eyes for a moment and snuggled against her. He liked the sweet, familiar scent of her skin.  
  
"If life is a test, I hope I don't fail it," he murmured drowsily, suddenly feeling really tired, but also comforted. Catherine smiled and hugged him, holding him close to her body.  
  
"Well, you'll just have to see and keep testing yourself, so you don't get slow," she said playfully, not imagining that he would actually take that sentence to be one of his life's most important rules. "I'm sure you'll be fine, Henry. You'll be just fine. After all, you're my son." Suddenly, she was shaken by a fit of coughing, but she didn't let go of the boy. The change of climate wasn't working as well as she'd hoped it would, and she feared not to be around to see her boys growing up to be established citizens. She was also suddenly hit by the sad certainty that she had wasted many years of her life doing what others had expected her to, instead of enjoying her time. Had she known she'd contract such a serious illness, there would be some things she'd done different. "Henry?"  
  
"Yes, Momma?" From his tone of voice she learned that he was just as concerned about her sickness as she was.  
  
"Can you promise me one thing?"  
  
"Anything."  
  
"Don't listen too much to what others tell you to do or not to do," Catherine said, closing her eyes and breathing in the soft scent of youth that emanated from her boy's hair. "Just be who you want to be... and happy. That is the most important thing of all: you must be happy, as long as you don't do other people wrong." Henry swallowed down the sudden melancholy that welled up inside of him.  
  
"I promise," he said. "I'll be happy... and I'll pass the test."  
  
"That's my boy," Catherine said, forced herself to let go of Henry and stand up. She smoothed out her dress and smiled. "Now I have to go back to work, dear. You can help me if you want to." Henry just nodded and leaped up, following his momma and driving away the dreaded thoughts of sadness and upcoming grief as well as the hurt caused by Junior Whitehill. He knew who his mother was and was happy to have her, considering himself extremely lucky for that.  
  
The day went on merrily but, in less than a year, Catherine Antrim would be dead, William Antrim off to Arizona, Joseph McCarty under the care of a foster family and William Henry Bonney McCarty on his own. He would have to learn to survive and nothing would ever be the same. But the lessons his mother had taught him would linger in his mind, and he would not forsake his promise.  
  
Henry would overcome the disappointment of being repudiated by his stepfather and adopt the most natural alias, the name that had first been given him at the day of his birth, and which would be remembered by history: William H. Bonney. He would live life to the fullest and he would pass the test, his own test, in a way no one could ever have predicted. William Henry Bonney would make history and become the stuff for legend.


End file.
